“Phenomenal?” Phoebe says. “You mean in the traditional sense of the word?”

“What do you mean, in the traditional sense of the word?”

“Like when people back in the day used to say phenomenal to describe something celestial made visible.”

“Huh?”

“Like a shooting star was phenomenal, because they believed it to be a sign from God.”

Roy gives her a long look like maybe he understands what she’s trying to say. But then he leans in and whispers, “Want to fuck?”

Perhaps it is not so strange of a request, two people at a wedding not their own. It happens in movies all the time. It probably happens to Roy all the time.

“Do people fuck you just because you ask?” Phoebe asks, genuinely curious.

“The ones who look me in the eye,” he says. “In Iraq, the only women who look men directly in the eyes are prostitutes.”

“That can’t be true,” Phoebe says.

“It is,” he says.

He thought it was weird at first but then got used to it and thought it was amazing what you could get used to over time. He says it’s really hard being back in the States.

“Women here have no problem looking you in the eye,” he says. “Like you, right now. You’re doing it. What does it mean?”

He says he can never tell who wants to fuck him and who is just being polite.

“That must be really hard,” Phoebe says.

PHOEBE MAKES HER way back to Jim at the bar. She passes Nat and Suz in floral dresses down to their ankles. Marla and her husband, picking at the olives, trying to talk in real life. Then Gary and Lila, who have become unreachable during the height of cocktail hour. They stand near the door, greeting new people, holding drinks that match the sunset. When Lila laughs, Gary puts his hand on her back like he did on the boat. They already look married. She remembers her own wedding, how just making all those decisions together in some way married them. Each handshake was a way of saying, I do, I do, I do.

Phoebe orders a margarita. She wonders if she’ll ever be able to drink gin and tonics again. She watches the bartender squeeze the lime.

“You finish your speech?” Jim asks.

“I did,” Phoebe says. “And I learned never to write a speech after I’ve had two weeds.”

Jim laughs so explosively, it seems like there’s a good chance he might die before the end of it. Even Gary and Lila look over as he holds his chest. They all watch as it trickles out like exhaust from a tailpipe. But he survives. He puts his arm around Phoebe, and Gary looks over. They meet eyes, but then comes another wedding person to shake Gary’s hand.

“You make me laugh,” Jim says. “Sit next to me tonight.”

“I think we have assigned seats,” Phoebe says, picking up the card with her name on it. Phoebe feels proud to be at Table 1 for the first time in her life, assigned to the seat directly across from the bride and groom. Jim is seated beside her.

“It’s fate,” Jim says.

Lila picks up her glass, clinks a spoon against it. Gary raises a champagne flute.

“We can’t tell you how grateful we’ve been for your support and your community this week,” Gary says. “It’s wonderful to be here, in this beautiful hotel, with you all.”

When talking to his guests, it feels like the Gary who was sitting next to her in the barbershop is truly gone. This Gary is beardless and has nothing to do with Phoebe at all. But when Gary turns around to gesture at the magnificent ocean behind them, Phoebe sees it: the tiny spot of blood where the barber nicked him earlier.

“The dinner will be a five-course meal,” Lila says. “With a palate cleanser in between. And then after, we’ll go down to the beach to enjoy the fireworks and s’mores for the kids. So please enjoy and take your assigned seats.”

As they all sit down, Gary’s mother stands up.

“Let’s hold hands and say grace,” Gary’s mother says.

Phoebe holds hands with Patricia, whose hand is as smooth and dry as a stone, and she worries about crushing it for some reason. On the other side is Jim.

“Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord,” Gary’s mother says. “Amen.”

While half of the room does the sign of the cross, Juice reaches out for Jim’s wine.

“Can I have a sip?” Juice asks.

“No,” Jim says.

“But everyone else is drinking,” Juice says.

“When you’re older, you’ll have time to drink more drinks than you’ll ever want. Trust your uncle on this one.”

Gary is just watching all of this, always a little stunned by Juice’s attempts to get older. Or maybe he is just studying Jim, who is leaning into Phoebe now, very obviously, whispering something in her ear.

“What the fuck is a palate cleanser anyway?” Jim whispers.

“A lemon thing on a spoon,” Phoebe says.

“Oh, right, that makes perfect sense.”

Phoebe laughs, and in this space so close to Jim, it feels safe to return Gary’s gaze. But Gary has already looked away, and it’s so strange to Phoebe that humans have learned how to do that—how to look away just in time.

“But what if I die? Not everybody gets their time,” Juice says.

“You will not die,” Gary says.

“You don’t know that,” Juice says.

“Yes, I do,” Gary says.

“Are you God?”

“He’s an adult human,” Jim says. “Statistically, most children in America live to see their own drinking age.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I’m an adult human! I know things,” Jim says.

Every so often Marla and her husband talk to each other by asking Oliver to do something completely inappropriate, like publicly conjugate a Latin noun, which makes the table supremely uncomfortable, though everybody does a good job of not showing it.